The Triumphant Return of the Avonlea Town Christmas Pageant
by Cahreestah
Summary: Anne is thrown into the depths of despair when Mr. Phillips announces that the Christmas Pageant has been cancelled for good. With hard work, determination, and a little bit (or rather, a huge heap) of enthusiasm, Anne and her friends pull together a show to celebrate the holiday with the rest of Avonlea - just in time for someone who had been missing (and missed) to return home.


Author's Note:

Please accept my sincere and heartfelt thanks for your kind words and enthusiasm for my last Anne fic! You really made my whole week after posting, and your response is (truly) why I decided to pursue the idea for this story. I gave myself a bit more time with this one to let it breathe... and did it ever! I was expecting this to wrap up in half the length, but it was so fun, I didn't want to stop.

(I would like to set the record straight here in that I am _not_ wishing for winter. I begged the muse to give me another summertime story, but it was not to be. So Merry Christmas in July, and a happy new last half of the year!)

This story is set one year after the end of the first season of _Anne with an E_. The important changes to know if you haven't seen the series are... (SPOILERS AHEAD)

Jerry Baynard is a cheeky little French-Canadian boy who is hired to help at Green Gables and quickly takes up a surrogate-annoying-little-brother position in Anne's life. Gilbert is orphaned before his time when his father passes away from his long illness. This naturally softens Anne's heart toward him, and they agree to set aside their differences just before Gilbert leaves on a potentially-extended trip away from Avonlea.

* * *

"And the capital of the District of Alberta is..." Mr. Phillips asked the class carelessly, pacing at the front of the classroom.

Edmonton, Anne thought dully, and stared out the window.

It was gray and foggy outside, much as it had been all week. The dreariness of late fall can eat away at one's soul, leaving their bones ripe for the picking when winter's true chill settles in.

 _Oh, that is a good one,_ Anne thought, grabbing her notebook and jotting it down.

It had been a long summer, preceded by an even longer spring, but Matthew's heart was serving him better these days. He was often up and about before Anne in the mornings again, so she had the renewed cheer of crossing his path multiple times in the midst of her before-school chores.

'Great morning,' she had greeted him on her way to gathering the eggs that day, 'for how could any morning be called merely 'good' when one comes upon a kindred spirit so soon after waking?'

'Morning, Anne,' he lifted his cap and repositioned it half-an-inch on his forehead.

'Can you believe it is just two months until Christmas again?' Anne wondered, veering off-course and following him into the barn.

'Mmm,' Matthew nodded, pushing his tongue against his teeth in contemplation. 'I sure will be glad to see a year behind me from last Christmas.'

'Oh, so will I,' Anne agreed. 'Why, I don't believe I remember anything from the first three months of this year other than worrying I would lose my first true, dear friend.' She watched him clean out the goat pen. 'But I suppose it's time to stop snarling ourselves up about what might have been, and start being thankful that we have been granted a second opportunity to celebrate the holiday properly together.'

Matthew propped his rake on the floor and scratched his ear. It just occurred to him - but why hadn't he thought of it before - that Anne hadn't been able to enjoy, or even experience, the wonder of childhood last Christmas... and she likely hadn't experienced it in her years previous to Green Gables, either.

'What do you want for Christmas this year, Anne?' Matthew had asked, leaning both hands upon the rake's handle.

'Far too many things to recount before breakfast, I'm afraid,' Anne answered seriously. 'Marilla has been reminding me to be grateful for everything I have, and when I stop to think about it, I realize, why, I come across a hundred gifts scattered at my feet every single day!' She swung around a barn post, braids flying. 'You and Marilla, of course, and Green Gables and the Snow Queen, too, but also rivers to jump across and flowers to look at and books to read, and my dear Diana, and going to school, even if it is less thrilling than I imagined to be top of the class-'

'Isn't there anything you want, though,' Matthew asked again, when it became clear that her tangent had flown right out of the atmosphere, 'something that would put a smile on your face?'

Anne looked at him with wide eyes. 'I don't want to make you go to any special trouble for me,' she said. 'I just want to see both of you, and have dinner together as we always do - and perhaps we will be lucky enough to build a snowman this year! Oh, I think a snowman would be just the most charming little greeter for our guests to Green Gables, don't you?'

Matthew smiled, unable to be frustrated at this answer. 'I'll show you how to make a proper snowball,' he offered. 'We'll practice throwing them at Jerry - _don't tell Marilla!'_ he ended on a whisper.

Anne giggled. 'Using Jerry for target practice would be the closest earthly conception to heavenly bliss I can think of, Matthew.'

They turned when they heard Marilla calling Anne's name from the kitchen.

Anne let go of the post and straightened, dropped suddenly back to earth.

'The eggs!' she gasped and ran out the door. 'Goodbye, Matthew!' she called. 'It has been a joy to speak to you this morning, and I wish you well in your endeavors until breakfast!'

Matthew smiled at the goats. They bleated back at him, bemused.

"And that is why the school board has decided not to produce the town Christmas Pageant this year," Mr. Phillips said presently.

"What?" Anne exclaimed, dismayed.

Mr. Phillips let loose a long, aggrieved sigh. "Shall I repeat myself, class, because Miss Shirley-Cuthbert was too busy drawing in her notebook to listen the first time?" Anne quickly shuffled her books to the side and sat up straight as a pin. "Ruby Gillis," he demanded, "tell Anne what I just explained while she was daydreaming."

"Because no one has stepped up to help direct and supervise the project since Mrs. Moorehead left town five years ago," Ruby recited like a choir student, "the school board has voted to suspend the Christmas Pageant indefinitely."

"But- but-" Anne protested, horribly disappointed even though she wasn't entirely clear on what a Christmas Pageant _was,_ "what a terrible loss for the little children of Avonlea! Can't we do it ourselves?" she asked.

Mr. Phillips scoffed. "I hardly think so," he answered. "I am far too busy to supervise weekly rehearsals and costume fittings and scenery construction," though, if pressed, he would find it difficult to state just _what_ responsibilities in his life took up so much of his time.

"I'll do it," Anne offered before considering the ramifications of such a commitment (which was quite her standard way of going through life). "What does a Christmas Pageant entail, anyway?" she asked Diana.

Diana looked at Mr. Phillips nervously. "Well, Mrs. Moorehead would put the younger children in the nativity scene as the angels and the animals. Then older students would take on the bigger roles, and recite poems and read scriptures to make it more interesting." Her eyes took on a faraway cast. "And we would all sing together at the end - _Silent Night,_ and the audience would sing with us, and, oh, it really was quite magical, especially one year, I think I was six, it started snowing sometime in the middle of the show, and when we threw open the doors at the final chorus, the wind blew snowflakes in on the back few rows." She sighed. "All the sheep ran outside, and Mrs. Moorehead had to let them go home in their costumes."

Anne turned to Mr. Phillips and gestured significantly. " _Silent Night!"_ she exclaimed. "It started snowing! The sheep ran outside!"

Mr. Phillips rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, I heard the charming tale, I have ears same as you. But none of the adults in this town have seen fit to make it happen again, and you are not equipped to pull off such an undertaking on your own." He cut her off at her furious look. "The answer is NO, Miss Shirley-Cuthbert, we will not be producing the Avonlea Christmas Pageant without a parent to supervise."

He turned back to the chalkboard and began drawing up their homework assignments.

Anne slumped in her seat and glared out the window.

It was gray outside, and no Christmas Pageant to look forward to. Already she was wishing for spring.

* * *

Marilla peeled the potatoes while Anne ranted about Mr. Phillips.

"...and he didn't even care about what Diana had said, that the doors sprang open with the gusts of a fresh, unforeseen snowstorm, that the fields were covered in a clean white blanket, and the trees glistened with ice crystals, and the snowflakes blew in on the audience gathered together as they sang _Silent Night,_ and the sheep ran out on the front lawn and played in the snow, (well, the little children dressed up as sheep, no actual barn animals were present), and everyone went home especially blessed by the magic of Christmas that night, but do you think that mattered one whit to Mr. Phillips? Why, no it did not!" She paused in her pacing across the kitchen floor and glared at the chicken that Marilla had prepared for roasting as though it had personally offended her. "Can you believe that, Marilla? Even after what Diana said, he wasn't moved a bit!"

"I remember that night," Marilla said thoughtfully. "It was quite cold, and the last few rows got snow all down their backs."

Anne sat at the kitchen table in despair. "I shall never get to see a Christmas Pageant and sing Silent Night while snow falls outside the windows, Marilla, never!"

"Come, now," Marilla offered her a carrot stick, by now quite familiar with Anne while she was in the depths of despair, "well, what's all the hubbub about? Why does Mr. Phillips say they cannot do the Christmas Pageant again?"

"None of the parents have stepped forward to help produce it since Mrs. Moorehead left," Anne said sadly. "And even though I assured him quite thoroughly that I could do it, he would not be swayed."

"Anne!" Marilla said, surprised. "Why would you want to take all that responsibility on yourself, especially after this last year we've had?"

Anne shrugged. "It's just such a shame that the children won't be able to be little angels and little sheep in the nativity scene, and that the town won't get together to sing _Silent Night_ in the community hall." She traced the North Star with her finger on the table. "I never did sing _Silent Night_ on Christmas before."

Marilla set the potatoes to roast and wiped her hands on her apron. Matthew stepped from the doorway where he'd been listening and entered the kitchen.

"Evening, Anne, Marilla," he said quietly, heading toward his bedroom to clean up from the day's work. "Oh, Anne," he stopped before the opposite door as though he just remembered something, "did you think of what might be something special you'd want for Christmas?"

Marilla shot him a queer look. Anne just moaned piteously.

"I am sure the only special thing I could possibly want is for Avonlea to have their town Christmas Pageant again this year, but Mr. Phillips and the school board has made it quite impossible that my one dream shall ever come true!"

"Oh, well, now, why is that?" Matthew asked.

"They will not let me be in charge, and none of the parents have volunteered to oversee it!" Anne said sadly.

"Hmm, seems a real shame," he said, his voice just a touch more stiff than usual. "Why, I remember going to that every year, and was even in it myself a few times - _many_ moons ago." He turned to Marilla. "Do you remember that, Marilla?"

Marilla tried not to be suspicious. "I do," she answered.

He turned back to Anne and smiled shyly at her. "I sure would love to see you as the nativity angel," he told her. "In a pretty white dress, reading to the town as you do for us."

Anne gave him a tremulous smile. "I would be ever so pleased to read something I had written just for Avonlea," she said wistfully. "Not that I have written anything yet," she added, "but I am quite assured that I _could_ if given the chance to perform it."

Matthew nodded. "You've got a pretty interesting way with words," he said. Marilla snorted and slid the chicken in the stove.

"But it is not to be," Anne sighed, "and there is no point in thinking about everything I will miss out on this Christmas anymore."

"Seems a real shame," Matthew said again, his eyes flickering to Marilla before he headed off to wash.

Marilla could feel the dull fingers of a headache coming on. She had the sudden feeling that she knew exactly what her next two months would be filled with.

* * *

The children were not settling down. The excitement was simply too palpable, another fine layer of elation sprinkled on the damp air. Anne could not blame them. She was hard-pressed to keep from bouncing up and down, herself.

Marilla, on the other hand, had no such qualms about calling out their unrefined behavior.

"Good little boys and girls who want to be in this year's Christmas Pageant will sit quietly in their seats and- _not tug their neighbors hair, Steven,"_ she said sternly. The little boy popped to attention at being singled out by Miss Cuthbert, and slowly the ruckus died down, the students turning in their seats to listen to their new producer.

Marilla took a breath and addressed them.

"We will have rehearsals here at the community hall every Monday and Thursday after school," she said. "Younger students need only attend on Thursdays until the last few weeks, while older students with bigger parts will be called both days." She gave them a very serious look. "If you cannot commit to this schedule, then I kindly ask you to please step aside this year and allow your peers with more time to give the Pageant due consideration."

The younger children gazed at her, entranced by the gravity of the project they were embarking upon. Some of the older students muttered to each other, shaking their heads and shrugging. Josie Pye flicked her braid on her back and raised her eyebrows haughtily. Charlie Sloane nodded pedantically. Fred Wright shot a glance across the room at Diana Barry, who sat at the edge of her seat, watching eagerly.

"First we shall hear some readings from the younger students," Marilla continued, "so we can split up their parts. You will go across the hall with Mrs. Lynde to learn your recitations," she gave them all a beady eye that shot fearful awe into even the most rambunctious of souls, "and you will listen carefully to her instructions and respect what she tells you!" Marilla glanced to Rachel Lynde, who gave a small, martyred smile with the weight of the world upon her shoulders. "Then we shall audition the older students, and begin to plan the readings and songs around the nativity story."

Little Sadie Pye was the first to stand bravely at the front of the hall. She rose her eyes to the ceiling and shifted from side to side. Josie leaned forward and smiled at her encouragingly. Sadie took a deep breath and recited:

"Little Miss Muffet  
Sat on a tuffet,  
Eating her curds and whey;  
Along came a spider,  
Who sat down beside her,  
And frightened Miss Muffet away."

They all clapped politely, and Anne had to admit that it was quite a cute recitation, with her little voice and her stray curls. John Meredith's little brother Billy was next. He marched to the front, quite determined, and announced all in one stream:

"Baa, baa, black sheep  
Have you any wool?  
Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full.  
One for the master,  
And one for the dame,  
And one for the little boy  
Who lives down the lane."

They heard Humpty Dumpty, Little Miss Muffet again, Old King Cole two times in a row, Mary, Mary, quite contrary, and even a rousing rendition of Little Bo-Peep, quite surprisingly by Diana's little sister Minnie May. After the applause died down, Sammy Spurgeon stepped through his row and down the aisle to go next. He glanced at Miss Cuthbert, then recited with a huge smile on his face:

"There was an old woman,  
Her name it was Peg;  
Her head was of wood and  
She wore a cork leg.  
The neighbours all pitch'd  
Her into the water,  
Her leg was drowned first,  
And her head followed after."

Marilla cleared her throat. "Thank you, Sammy," she said drily around the titters from Sammy's classmates. "I don't believe I've heard that one before." Moody Spurgeon sat ramrod straight, a look of utter mortification upon his features.

Jane Biggs popped up from the front row, then, shooting Sammy a mischievous look. She turned to the crowd and started her recitation before he could even sit down again.

"Old father Long-Legs  
Can't say his prayers:  
Take him by the left leg,  
And throw him down the stairs.  
And when he's at the bottom,  
Before he long has lain,  
Take him by the right leg,  
And throw him up again."

"Alright, I think that will be all," Marilla announced loudly over the rising giggles. "We have heard quite enough from the younger students today to make the proper placements. You may go now into the other room with Mrs. Lynde," she nodded at Rachel, who bravely swallowed her horror and ushered the children away.

The older students shuffled into the front row and sat at attention. Anne's knee bounced so exuberantly that Diana had to place her hand on it. Anne glanced at her.

"You will be fantastic, Diana," she whispered. With Diana's glossy black hair and her perfect complexion, Anne was sure she would make a beautiful Mary.

Diana gave her half a smile. "Thank you, dear Anne," she whispered back. "And no doubt you will be tremendous - you are such a passionate reader of poetry, after all."

Charlie Sloane volunteered to go up and read as their first Joseph. Anne nudged Diana, who was a bit slow to gather her courage. Ruby Gillis jumped up and grabbed the book from Marilla's hand before they could dissolve into furious whispers.

"Mary, my beloved wife, chosen by the Almighty," Charlie said awkwardly, "I am afraid there is no room for us at this Inn, or any Inn in Bethlehem."

"Oh, Joseph," Ruby simpered, "what shall we do? I cannot go any further, we must find safe haven to rest for the night." She flicked her hair, glancing at the row of onlookers.

Anne did her best not to look upward to the heavens for help.

After their - _stirring_ \- reading was finished, Diana had suitably settled her nerves, so she was able to step forward and take the book from Ruby with shaking hands. Fred Wright popped up (and smoothly stepped around John Meredith, who was already walking down the row) to join her.

"The Innkeeper has offered to let us stay in the stable," Fred said magnanimously, glancing at Diana.

"That is so kind," Diana said with an odd inflection, white-knuckling her script. "I am ever so- indeb- indeb-"

" _Indebted,"_ Fred whispered.

"Indebted to the gen-er-os-ity of those unknown to me," she finished with great relief.

"Let us pray, Mary," Fred said solemnly, grasping her hand, "that our Lord Father watch over us in this cold, dirty place, surrounded by sheep and horses, if the baby should come tonight."

Diana looked up from her script with dawning horror when she suddenly remembered the role Mary played in this story.

"Thank you," Marilla called out from stage left. "Very... very earnest performances from both of you." Diana nearly ran from the dais and collapsed in her seat next to Anne.

"Oh, Anne," she moaned in her ear, "that was more terrifying than waking Aunt Jo after she'd had three snifters of scotch the night before!"

Josie Pye and Moody Spurgeon stood up next.

"Glory to God in the highest heaven," Moody recited in his stately voice, lifting an imaginary babe to the stars. "This may not be what we expected, Mary, but after all, we have been granted a precious gift."

"The angel told me I would bear the Son of the Most High," Josie said, gently taking the mimed newborn in a motherly clasp. "And I love him dearly, for he is my child, though he be wrapped in old cloth and placed in a manger."

They finished the scene up until the wisemen were written to enter, and Anne, ever appreciative of the rousing, the polished beauty of performed words, had to admit they struck a fine chord.

She stepped up to read next with John Meredith, still waiting patiently for his turn.

"You have done well, dear wife," he said, peering down into a make-believe manger. "The Son of God has come to earth through you, bringing hope to even the poorest and the most humble."

Anne rocked the baby and smiled down at him, imagining her own child (from that far and distant day when the page would turn and she would read of the mysteries, the heartaches and joys of motherhood). "I shall keep him close to my heart forever," she said solemnly, "and call him 'Jesus,' 'salvation to all,' as the angel told me."

John paused to allow the moment time to settle, which turned out to be a mistake, as Anne found herself struck by sudden inspiration. She spoke in a voice hushed with anticipation to her newborn boy,

"We were crowded in the cabin,  
Not a soul would dare to sleep,-  
It was midnight on the waters,  
And a storm was on the deep."

Marilla looked up from her notes, where she was putting names together and crossing them out, and narrowed her eyes at the stage, where Anne was now on bended knee, in preparation to stand up in a rather impressive fashion.

"'Tis a fearful thing in winter  
To be shattered by the blast,  
And to hear the rattling trumpet  
Thunder, 'Cut away the mast!'"

"Anne-" Marilla tried, but Anne plowed on enthusiastically, now on two feet, with the full range of her limbs at her disposal to properly communicate the drama, the emotion of the poem.

"So we shuddered there in silence,-  
For the stoutest held his breath,  
While the hungry sea was roaring  
And the breakers talked with DEATH."

Here her voice rose with the word DEATH and she lifted her arm in despair. "Anne-" Marilla tried again, louder this time, but Anne was in the throes of a passionate recounting, lost to good sense (which admittedly she was only rarely found by). Marilla rolled her eyes and surrendered, seeing as she had enough common sense for both of them, and could accept that the tides of Anne's fancy would roll out again as soon as they were allowed to roll in.

"As thus we sat in darkness  
Each one busy with his prayers,  
'We are lost!' the captain shouted,  
As he staggered down the stairs."

Diana was smiling, enraptured. Ruby Gillis looked rather confused, but watched with fascination. Moody had closed his eyes and was giving small little nods as he pictured the scene in his head. Charlie Sloane felt a bit aggrieved that Anne was once again bucking proper guidelines without any apparent consequences, but his brother Tommy watched in a trance, as far on the edge of his seat as Diana was. Josie picked at her fingernails, pretending not to listen.

"But his little daughter whispered,  
As she took his icy hand,  
'Isn't God upon the ocean,  
Just the same as on the land?'"

Anne paused and sighed dreamily, clasping her hands to her chest. She gave the last stanza its proper weight, the light of sunrise in her voice.

"Then we kissed the little maiden,  
And we spake in better cheer,  
And we anchored safe in harbor  
When the morn was shining clear."

John stood by, uncertain if he should continue with the scene after such an interlude, while Anne took a moment to find her feet back on solid ground. Then Diana jumped up in enthusiastic applause, Moody joining her after a second. Ruby giggled and clapped, still a bit confused as to if that was actually part of the scene or not (she didn't think she'd ever heard of the time Mary performed a dramatic poem for the newborn Messiah, but her attention wasn't exactly focused at Sunday School). Tommy Sloane smiled and clapped jovially, while the rest of their classmates joined in with a smattering of polite applause. Charlie sniffed and glowered, and Josie rolled her eyes.

Anne swept a highly graceful bow with extra flourish. Her color was high, her eyes bright, and Marilla found it difficult to be annoyed at her with the glow of delight upon her freckled face.

"Thank you, Anne, John," she called and stepped onto the stage, waving them back to their seats. "That was quite stimulating, though I ask that you please stick to the script in future."

Anne nodded her acquiescence, which Marilla was sure would last until the next whim struck her. The last few readings concluded with quite a bit less excitement, and Marilla wrapped her scarf around her neck with relief when the door creaked shut behind them and they headed home at last.

"What a positively delectable and enchanting evening!" Anne cried, skipping at her side.

"Yes, it was thrilling, wasn't it?" Marilla answered drily.

"So what do you think, Marilla?" she asked, skipping ahead to turn around and meet her eyes, hopping backwards. "Have you found the perfect Mary and Joseph? A charming Innkeeper? The devout wiseman? A glorious nativity angel?" Anne's heel snagged up against a loose rock on the road, and she twisted to the ground, catching herself inelegantly with both hands.

"Would you pay attention and walk like a young lady, Anne?" Marilla scolded harshly, made irritable by the unpleasant plunge of her heart.

"Sorry, Marilla," Anne said contritely, turning forward again and sweeping down the road like a queen. "So, who will you choose to play Mary?" she asked. "Oh, please say Diana, Marilla, she is so lovely and grave-"

"I know you watched those auditions same as I did, Anne," Marilla said. "If you are as determined as you say that Avonlea's first Christmas Pageant in five years be a success, you should want your classmates to play the roles best for them."

Anne twisted her lips, watching the ground carefully for more rocks hidden by the night's darkness. "I suppose..." she said hesitantly, "I suppose Diana will make a beautiful angel, as part of the host that comes to earth when Jesus is born, called by the nativity angel, who might be..." she paused, then said hopefully, "me?"

The moon was just bright enough for Anne to catch the slight quirk of Marilla's lips. She glanced down at Anne and raised her eyebrows.

"I suppose," she agreed, and they walked home arm-in-arm.

* * *

The sheep and the oxen were not very good listeners, though Avonlea was full of good little chickens.

That is not to say that the little sheep and the little oxen didn't love Anne, because they did - certainly more than old Mrs. Lynde - but sometimes love by itself is just not enough, a hard truth that Anne herself was coming to realize as her fifteenth Christmas season approached.

"This way, Sadie," Anne called, ushering the sheep across the stage with her arms. "That's right- Minnie May! That's your cue to begin! If you don't start right away, we'll all just be standing around looking at each other while the audience wonders what is going on!"

The little girl nodded contritely and took a deep breath to begin, but-

"Don't worry, Minnie May!" Sammy Spurgeon declared, trotting out in his half-finished oxen costume (right then just a headpiece with little horns and oddly-shaped ears sticking straight out from his head). "If you forget your lines, I'll come up and do this!" His feet flashed wildly over his head as he snapped out a quick, ungraceful cartwheel. Minnie May jumped back, alarmed, and he took a few loopy steps to regain his balance.

"Sammy Spurgeon!" Anne called crossly, using both names in the way of beleaguered adults scolding unruly little children. "Please keep both feet on the ground at all times, and do not interrupt your classmates while they are attempting to rehearse their lines again!"

Sammy stood stock-still, center stage, and mimed zipping his lip as he looked at Anne, wide-eyed.

"Well?" Anne prompted after a moment, when he hadn't moved from his spot a little in front of Minnie May. "Can you please join the other oxen stage right so we may carry on with this scene?"

Sammy quickly unzipped his mouth and answered, "But I don't know how to walk and keep both of my feet on the ground at all times, Miss Shirley-Cuthbert!"

Anne sighed. "Sammy-" she started.

"Like this!" Jane Biggs hopped out of the flock of sheep stage left and shuffled backward across the stage, lifting her heel as she shifted weight between legs.

Anne paused, intrigued in spite of herself. There was something almost - _magical_ about the way Jane's feet slid across the stage.

"Whoa!" Sammy exclaimed, impressed. "How do you do that?"

Jane slid up to Sammy and turned so they were facing the same direction. "Lift your heel, then slide your other foot back-" she instructed.

Anne tilted her head as she watched, unconsciously shuffling her feet through Jane's directions.

In shockingly short order, the stage was full of barn animals awkwardly sliding backwards, bumping into each other, correcting their friends' attempts, giggling, cheering and on the whole wasting perfectly good Christmas Pageant rehearsal time.

Anne was at the bottom of the stage, practicing her own magical backwards walk, when Marilla entered the hall. She walked through the seats to the front row, where she deposited her load of gathered props and costume pieces for the later rehearsal. Marilla stood, straight as a post with her hands on her hips and her eyebrows raised, as she watched the debauched anarchy taking place under Anne's nose.

The chickens whispered to one another at Miss Cuthbert's arrival, and shuffled away to the stage right wing, out of firing range. Some of the sheep were possessed of a keen instinct for survival, and joined them quietly. The rest of the sheep, however, and pretty near all of the oxen (who are known to be rather blockheaded animals) increased their revelry for Miss Cuthbert's benefit, shrieking and running into one another, getting knocked down and exploding with high-pitched laughter at their clumsiness.

"I think I have it, now!" Anne called from house left. "Jane, watch!" She slid backwards across the hall floor, her feet gliding magically underneath her, carrying her across the front row- and right into Marilla's upright form.

"Oh!" she gasped, looking up at her guardian's stern face. "Hello, Marilla- I mean, Miss Cuthbert," she said, glancing at the young students who were now quieting down, whispering to each other and smirking. "We were just- uh, practicing," she finished lamely.

Marilla pursed her lips. "What part of the nativity scene were you practicing?" she asked.

"Uhm," Anne coughed, floundering.

"The part where the animals see the Baby Jesus and dance away in joy!" Sammy blurted out helpfully.

Anne shot him a desperate look, willing him to re-zip his lip.

"That's right!" Jane jumped in with her usual forward-barreling nature. "Miss Shirley-Cuthbert said we may add in a few fun little things to make the Christmas Pageant our own, and we decided that we want the animals to dance and magic-walk out after the Messiah is placed in his manger!"

"Well, now," Anne attempted, "that is not exactly-"

"Yes!" Jane interrupted, slipping enthusiastically into the role of director, "the chickens will go like this," she flapped her arms up and down and bobbed her head as she took high steps to the side, "the oxen will dance off, very dignified, like this," she lifted her arms and swept around in a fine imitation of one half of a waltzing pair, "and the sheep will turn and magic-walk off!" She slid backwards across the stage, straight off into the wings. Her classmates watched, entranced.

Marilla turned to Anne, a queer expression curling her face. "Is that so, Anne?"

Anne shrugged, wondering how everything had gotten away from her in such a short amount of time. "I did tell them that they could add a few flourishes to make the parts their own, that is true," she admitted, "but it's only fair, Marilla, seeing as how the older students are reciting poetry and scripture passages throughout the evening! Only I didn't realize they would want to _dance_ -"

"But we do!" Sammy was quick to assure her.

"Well, then," Marilla said briskly, "I suppose that's all there is to it." Anne gazed at her in consternation. She turned to the animals. "Let's take it from the top," she announced.

* * *

The chickens were festooned in red and white feathers, the oxen's horns were strapped sturdily to their headpieces, the shepherds each had a scratchy brown robe and a hooked cane, the wise men were gloriously adorned in sashes and magnificent turbans, and the angels- well, the angels were simply lovely in pure white gowns with long ribbons down their backs. Unfortunately, they were rather lacking in one very important feature-

"I cannot understand how Mrs. Lynde could possibly forget to add puffed sleeves to our dresses!" Anne exclaimed, terribly displeased.

"Oh, but they are quite sweet, don't you think, Anne?" Diana asked, turning around and looking over her shoulder at the white silk bow tied on her back. "And you, as the nativity angel, with your bright hair down on your shoulders-"

" _Don't_ remind me," Anne shuddered. "I told Marilla that I should have my hair up as a sign of respect as should be due an angel, but she would not be budged. She said it was not appropriate for a girl of fifteen to wear her hair up in front of the whole town." Anne sniffed, put out. "Sometimes I feel as though Marilla is a kindred spirit after all, but then she will go and prove that she simply has no consideration for the importance of beauty and refinement. How can the nativity angel have bright red hair hanging loose about her shoulders like a heathen?" She moaned, utterly distraught. "It is not to be borne, Diana, it is the utmost disgrace!" She collapsed dramatically on the chaise lounge in Mrs. Lynde's study.

"I think it is past time you let go of this ridiculous grudge against your hair, Anne," Diana said as sternly as Anne had ever heard her.

Anne popped back up before Diana could even open her mouth again to continue. "Oh, but Diana, you know that it is my lifelong misfortune to have red hair," she breathed. "It is my Achilles tendon, my albatross-"

"Well, it is quite silly," Diana informed her seriously. "You pay no mind to other wive's tales or judgements based on nothing but superstition. Why do you persist in believing that no one could possibly appreciate bright red hair?" She raised her eyebrows at Anne significantly. "I happen to know that Charlie Sloane finds your hair quite enchanting."

Anne grabbed her braids and pulled them behind her neck as if to hide them from Charlie's wandering eye (not that he was in the room, or even in the same neighborhood at the time).

"Oh, yes," Diana nodded loftily. "How many times I've caught him staring - no, _gazing_ -" here she fluttered her eyelashes and clasped her hands under her chin, "across the aisle at school at your bright red, _beautiful,_ braids."

"Diana!" Anne chastised her, though it must be admitted that her heart beat a little faster at the thought that her detestably copper locks might be the object of fascination of one of their male schoolmates. "I am sure that he was simply looking into the abyss of his own thoughts, and happened to be positioned in my direction, if he appeared to be looking at me at all."

"I know what I know," Diana said with all the wisdom of a decades-wizened sage, "and Charlie Sloane was _not_ the first Avonlea schoolboy to be taken with you and your red braids, Anne, or the most deeply affected."

Anne turned quickly and looked down at her ribbon. "Is my bow straight, Diana?" she asked. "I simply could not bear the shame if I were to walk on stage with a lopsided bow."

Diana tugged at the loops to pull them out evenly. "I think Marilla is right, you know," she informed Anne. "You look quite ethereal in white, and just a little bit wild with your hair half down, like a powerful, otherworldly being should." She saw the corners of Anne's lips curl up, gratified, and Diana leaned in to say in their hushed secret-telling voice, "Suppose he comes back for Christmas and comes to the Pageant to see us all again!"

Anne stiffened and she stepped away, picking up their delicate gold headbands. "Hmm?" she hummed, not looking at her. "Who's that, Diana?" she asked unconvincingly.

"Oh, wouldn't that be delightful?" Diana carried on dreamily. "If he were to return to Avonlea after a whole year away, and come to the Christmas Pageant that you and Marilla have managed to resurrect, and see you from the audience when you step on stage in your beautiful white dress-"

"-with _no_ puffed sleeves!" Anne interjected grumpily.

"-and hear your lovely recitation as the nativity angel (you know, I always thought he especially liked hearing you read in class), and maybe he wasn't sure if he would stay for good when he first returned, but after the Pageant, nothing would be clearer to him than that Avonlea is home, and home is where he should be." Diana sighed, her eyes glassy. "Wouldn't that be a divinely romantic Christmas miracle?"

Anne slid Diana's headband in place a bit less gently than she could have. "I don't know what you are talking about," she sniffed, "but I believe you are quite silly, Diana!"

Diana just smiled at her. "I suppose I am," she agreed, "but at least I am honest in my silliness! Don't worry, Anne," she assured her, "I will pray for your Christmas miracle, since I know you will be too stubborn to pray for it yourself."

She swept out of the study to show her costume to the Pageant mothers waiting in the sitting room. Anne followed more slowly.

Diana could be quite preposterous at times, she thought, but still there was a kernel of wisdom in what she said. Avonlea _was_ home, after all, at least it was for Anne, and after so much of her life had been spent in places she didn't belong to, she couldn't help but feel a kind of grief for someone who had been home once, but woke up one day to find the place had changed, or perhaps it was he who was so much altered, that he no longer recognized it as his own.

Coming home to stay - now that was truly the miracle of Anne's own life, and she would pray that the lost souls of all the towns stretched across Canada, from Halifax to Fort Victoria, find their own ways home this Christmas... especially Avonlea's.

* * *

"Well, now," Matthew looked up from his book when Marilla reentered the study with that evening's sewing, "how is the Pageant coming along?"

Marilla sat herself stiffly in her chair by the fire and narrowed her eyes at him. "Why are you so curious?" she asked. "Are you planning to spread your wings as a stage director one of these days?"

"Ah, no," Matthew tapped his shoe, propped comfortably upon his knee. "I doubt that'd be met with much success for anyone."

Marilla sighed and licked a piece of brown thread before poking it through the eye of her needle. "I can't say but it does my heart good to give our young ones a place to celebrate the birth of our Christian faith," she told him. "I only hope their family members be as forgiving as our Lord Father when the day comes."

Matthew winced sympathetically. "That bad?" he asked.

"I don't even know!" she exclaimed in consternation, setting the mending in her lap. "I've seen it so many times, I hardly know the meaning of the words anymore!"

"So perhaps it might actually be good?" he asked hopefully.

Marilla looked up to the ceiling in thought. "Well, _good_ may be calling it a bit too far," she said. "But the children are all quite dear in their costumes, and they are cute when they pay attention to their cues like good little boys and girls." She picked up her mending again, a smile dancing across her thin lips. "And I suppose every parent must feel a thrill to see their child on stage, the center of attention. Certainly, I must needs remind myself to appear impartial whenever Anne-" she broke off and shook her head, smiling.

"She's a natural, then?" Matthew asked, leaning forward eagerly.

Marilla fixed him with a look. "That child has all the gravity of a Presbyterian minister combined with all the whimsy of a princess locked in a tower," she informed him. "It is difficult to describe the way she outshines her peers - it's practically immodest."

"You don't mean to scold her for being good at something-" he was quick to protest.

"Oh, calm yourself, Matthew," she waved him down. "I know it is not vanity that drives her, but passion. And she has no notion of how far advanced her own performance is compared to the others- she watches and encourages them all with great joy and no small amount of silliness."

"What is she performing?" Matthew asked. "Another poem by Fields, or Whitman, perhaps?"

A bemused frown touched Marilla's mouth. "She won't perform it for me," Marilla admitted. "She says she has written something original, but that it is not ready to be seen yet by outside eyes."

Matthew sat back, a tad surprised. "The Pageant is only three weeks from now-"

"I am aware," Marilla said drily. "But the child is quite adamant that she will be ready when the time comes." She tossed another log on the fire and stoked the coals to a nice bright orange. "Perhaps she will perform it for you," Marilla said as an afterthought as she returned to her mending. "Maybe you can help her with the final touch."

Matthew stared unseeingly at the page he had left off from. He thought perhaps he could.

The first snow of the season came upon them a few days later. It fell all day, light and wet from low-hanging gray clouds while the bright blue sky twinkled high above. The white flakes dissolved upon contact with the ground for the first few hours, but by the time Anne skipped home from school, a fine layer dusted the fields and crowned the trees.

Matthew, standing near the barn window, saw the flash of her braids as she crossed the fence and headed for the house. He hurried to the door.

"Afternoon, Anne," he called, and she looked up, gracing him with a beautifully big smile and a hearty wave. He gestured her toward him when she made to continue on her path.

"What do you make of this?" he asked, flicking his hand at the snowy landscape. "Think we might get a white Christmas this year?"

"I shall certainly remain hopeful," Anne declared, "but I do not intend to despair if this is a passing storm and the snow comes late this year. I have been granted so many of my wishes this holiday season, I should think myself quite churlish if I cannot enjoy the day simply because it might not snow!"

"Still, it would be fun," Matthew said. He elaborated at her confused look. "Snowball fight, remember?"

Anne smiled. "How could I forget such a promise?" she said. "Well, where is Jerry? Perhaps we can practice!" She jumped in excitement, braids bouncing.

Matthew chuckled. "I'm not sure you're ready for that," he mused, "but let's go out back- don't want to make Marilla mad. Leave your books here," he instructed and they walked around the barn.

Halfway across the field, he stooped to the ground and gathered a handful of snow, packing it close. "You want wet snow, but not too wet," he explained. "Or it will just pack down to a piece of ice, and that's not playing fair. When it snows a bit more, dig a few inches down to get the best texture." He held up his finished snowball for her inspection. She examined it carefully, then crouched to the ground and gathered a mound of snow with both hands. She packed it together and held it out to him proudly.

"Good," he nodded, "now what is our target?"

Anne looked around and turned, her hair, her cheeks, the tip of her nose bright red against the white sky. She pointed at his rustic scarecrow who watched over the cabbages, still swinging sadly in the winter wind, far past harvest when his solemn watch was brought to an end.

Matthew gasped slightly in mock grievance. "Not Critter Curtis, Keeper of the Crows!"

Anne giggled and nodded. "Keeper of the Cabbages," she corrected him and lined up her aim. " _Killer_ of the Crows." She lobbed her snowball across the fence toward the frozen cabbage patch. Her throw was wild, though, and the snowball fell to the ground with a splat twenty feet from Curtis' post. Far be it from Anne to despair, however, so she threw herself to her knees to pack together some more ammunition.

Jerry made the grave mistake of walking down the lane just then, and Anne took full advantage of the opportunity to take her enemy unawares. She leapt to her feet and pelted her snowballs at him, one after the other- but, of course, he was too far away for her arm, and they landed nowhere in his general vicinity. Jerry stopped and looked around, confused.

"What were you trying to hit?" he called across the field.

Anne huffed and crossed her arms, turning back to Matthew, who smiled easily at her. "Jerry!" he greeted him behind her, and, ignoring Anne's desperate eyes, "Come join us!"

Jerry picked his way over the fence and approached them merrily enough. "I was showing Anne how to pack a snowball," Matthew explained. "Do you like the snow, Jerry?"

Jerry shrugged. "My little brothers like to play in it," he said, "but the baby does not like the cold."

"Ah, right, your new sister," Matthew answered with a small smile. Anne looked up for the first time with interest. "How old is she now?"

"Elodie is, mmm, almost four months," Jerry said thoughtfully. "And she is often quite good for a baby, but if my mother or one of the girls takes her outside, she cries and cries."

"Does your family have any great traditions to celebrate Christmas?" Matthew asked, trying to come around to his primary purpose of helping Anne.

"Not really," Jerry shook his head. "Well- my father's brother has joined us the last few Christmas Eves, and he likes to read poetry and sing songs, so it is quite a jolly time. He plays a bit of piano, and tries to teach me, but I just don't have the time or the patience." His voice was a bit wistful.

"Anne will be reading some poetry at the Avonlea Christmas Pageant this year," Matthew turned to her, "won't you, Anne?"

She looked at him, surprised. "I- well, yes," she said somewhat reluctantly. "I have agreed to give the final reading of the night, before _Silent Night."_

"I think we are going to that," Jerry told her. "My mother was telling us about it last week," he sounded rather intrigued. "What are you reading?"

"Oh," Anne waved her hand as if it were of little consequence, "just a little piece I wrote."

Jerry raised his eyebrows at her. "You are performing an original poem?" he asked. "And you are the final recitation of the night?" he clarified further.

"Yes," Anne said shortly, a bit miffed at his prying. "But it's not a big deal-"

"Seems like a lot of pressure to me," Jerry commented. "The last recitation, the performance everyone will remember as they leave to finish their celebrations at home-"

"Well, that is the difference between you and I," Anne declared haughtily. "You may shrivel up in the face of a challenge, but I shall rise to meet it with bravery and dignity."

"Alright, then," Jerry nodded, "let's hear it."

Anne blinked, seized by the unfortunate (but fairly common, for her) suspicion that she had just talked herself into a corner. "Hear what?" she tried to play dumb.

"'Hear what?' she asks," he scoffed. "Let's hear your poem for the Christmas Pageant, of course."

"But it's not finished- I mean, it's not quite ready," she protested.

"Not finished yet?" Jerry repeated. "It's only two weeks away! You don't leave yourself much time for rehearsal, Anne."

"It's two _and a half_ weeks away," Anne responded primly. "And I've been rehearsing it for months now!"

"Might be good to practice it for someone else," Matthew said gently. "Maybe we can help you."

"I have no doubt _you_ can," Anne said, making it clear what she thought of Jerry's ability to help. "But I just- I mean I'm not sure- it's not quite what I- I don't want to disappoint you," she finished honestly.

"You've tried your best, haven't you?" Matthew asked her. At her nod, he said simply, "Then I won't be disappointed."

There wasn't much that Anne could say in response to that, other than to agree to give them a very special sneak-preview. So, she gathered her courage (which, as she had informed Jerry, she did possess in spades), took a few steps apart from them into the snowy field, ran through the words in her head, threw open her arms to the spitting skies, and began.

Matthew smiled and clapped and smiled some more when she was done. "That was really nice, Anne," he said, just a little bit hoarse.

"You like it?" Anne asked, coaxing another compliment out of him.

"It might be my favorite poem of all I've ever heard," he said quite truthfully, for though it was not so polished as a Keats or a Whitman, it was possessed of a personal nature to him and a charm all Anne's own.

"I think it would be better as a song," Jerry said unexpectedly. Anne narrowed her eyes at him.

"What?" she said, her sensitive nature making her a bit rude.

" _Mais oui,"_ he said, paying no heed to her prickliness, as per their usual interactions. He snapped his fingers and hummed a catchy tune, picking up the repeating verse of her poem. Anne stared at him, trying to determine if she had basis to be outraged.

Matthew was nodding at Jerry's rhythm, and to Anne's dismay, sang along on the final line with the brightest smile she'd seen on his face since his illness last winter.

Anne steeled herself and turned back to Jerry. "Alright," she said grudgingly, "hum that tune for me again, please."

* * *

A few nights later, Anne prepared for the debut of her originally-written performance for the cast and crew of the Avonlea town Christmas Pageant. It was the second to last rehearsal before the curtain went up (metaphorically, of course, since the community hall did not have a stage curtain) and all their hard work would be displayed for the enjoyment of their friends and family members.

The barn animals had finally learned the lyrics of their song _(Away in a Manger)_ \- or, at least, most of them were pretty clear on the words, and those that weren't had been instructed to mouth along and smile for the audience.

It was also the first night that everyone had (or was supposed to have) their full costumes, which meant that several oxen headpieces and a few chicken wings had mysteriously disappeared to whatever final location their wearers had deposited and forgotten about them. Eventually, with help from some of the older students and much supervisory scolding from Mrs. Lynde, every animal, shepherd, wiseman, Innkeeper and angel had their correct garb carefully tucked, pinned and placed about their persons, and they were finally ready to start the show, only twenty minutes behind schedule.

"We will not be cueing you or giving lines tonight!" Marilla called from the front row to the performers waiting nervously in the wings. "Please take this as the end of my welcome speech to our attendees-" she turned and faced the imaginary crowds, pulling her tall frame even straighter, her rigid lines proud and determined. "Thank you for coming this evening," she said with fearsome dignity, "and please enjoy the return of the Avonlea town Christmas Pageant."

She turned back to the stage and sat down, waiting expectantly.

Anne gave herself (and the illusory audience) a moment's breath, then entered stage right.

"In the sixth month the angel was sent from God unto a city of Galilee, named Nazareth," she said cheerfully in her clear voice, "to a virgin betrothed to a man named Joseph, of the house of David;  
her name was Mary." Josie entered solemnly from stage left, crossed to center stage, and knelt, looking upward. Anne approached her from behind. "And the angel came to her," she continued, "and said, 'Hail, thou that art highly favoured, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou among women!'"

They finished the well-known exchange: the angel shared with Mary the good news that she was expected of a child; Mary, troubled, asked how it could be since she was unmarried and a virgin; the angel then told her that her son would be called Jesus, and he would be the Son of God.

Josie stood, a light shining in her grave face. "I am the handmaid of the Lord," she said, "thy word be done." Anne exited stage left. Josie took a few steps forward and announced, "A Birthday, by Christina Rossetti." She placed her hands over her heart, looked upwards, and recited:

"My heart is like a singing bird  
Whose nest is in a water'd shoot;  
My heart is like an apple-tree  
Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit;  
My heart is like a rainbow shell  
That paddles in a halcyon sea;  
My heart is gladder than all these  
Because my love is come to me.

Raise me a dais of silk and down;  
Hang it with vair and purple dyes;  
Carve it in doves and pomegranates,  
And peacocks with a hundred eyes;  
Work it in gold and silver grapes,  
In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys;  
Because the birthday of my life  
Is come, my love is come to me."

The Pageant, propelled by their strong opening, swept along almost faultlessly after that. _Away in a Manger_ was criminally cute, with the little children in their feathered and horned costumes gathered around the makeshift stable where the baby Jesus lay. Their dance-out exit was a bit strange, it must be admitted, but the students got such a kick out of it that Anne decided she was glad Marilla had allowed them to keep it in.

There was a bit of a skuffle when Charlie couldn't find his turban in time for the entrance of the three wise men, but even worse was that he blamed Tommy for misplacing it. Tommy, however, staunchly denied ever touching Charlie's turban and suggested that he put on some sheep ears if he couldn't keep track of his costume like the rest of the older students. Then Fred accidentally stepped on the bottom of Charlie's robe, dragging it down his shoulder and tight against his throat. Charlie turned on him, hopping mad, and the whole situation almost descended to blows before Marilla sternly reminded them that they were standing in the birthplace of their lord and savior and would resolve their quarrel elsewhere, on their own time.

More quickly than Anne could have believed it, she found herself on stage again, surrounded by the ensemble. "Glory to God in the highest!" she cried, glancing upon their happy faces. "Peace on earth, and good will toward men!" Then she turned straight ahead to face the empty audience - save Marilla, and another person, an older brother, perhaps, who had entered the hall and stood in the back row - to begin her own recitation.

She took a deep breath, briefly closing her eyes, her palms unaccountably sweaty, her heart beating in her throat - then she steeled her resolve, swallowed down her fluttery nerves, and opened her eyes and mouth at the same time.

"Gilbert!" she exclaimed without thought.

Marilla looked up and furrowed her brow. Anne pointed a shaking hand at the person standing at the back of the hall, staring up at her.

"Gilbert!" she heard the call taken up behind her. "Gilbert!" again, and again, and again. Her classmates rushed around her to jump down from the stage and run through the rows to greet him.

Anne followed more slowly, stepping off the stage delicately. She paused next to the front row, catching Marilla's eye, who turned and regarded Avonlea's lost son with raised eyebrows.

"When did you get back, Gilbert?" Tommy Sloane wanted to know.

"Where have you been?" Moody wondered aloud.

"Did you know we were doing the town Christmas Pageant again this year?" Josie asked.

"How long are you staying, Gilbert?" John Meredith questioned him.

"You must come for dinner, old man, my mother will be unbearable if you don't!" Charlie announced.

Gilbert laughed and answered them all jovially enough. "I came into town just a few days ago; I've been to Alberta and a bit around the coast; I didn't know about the Pageant until today, when I called on Mr. Phillips after school; I'm not sure, John; and Charlie, please tell your mother that I would be delighted to join your family for dinner - tell me when, and I'll be there."

Anne regarded him carefully. He was taller than a year ago, and perhaps a touch thinner, too. But there was a lightness to him, a balance that had been missing before, as though a weight had dropped from his shoulders to his center, still there, still a part of him, but easier to bear.

He looked up, the crowd nudging him closer to the front of the hall, and met her eyes.

"Hello, Anne," he greeted her with a nod.

"Gilbert," she returned gravely, her joy bubbling over her solemnity a second later when she broke out into a wide smile. His lips curled up in response to hers before he turned to Marilla respectfully.

"Good evening, Miss Cuthbert," Gilbert said. "I am sorry to have interrupted your rehearsal." He sounded truly penitent, his eyes turning again to Anne. "I had hoped to drop in on you just before you finished so I might be able to offer my help should you need it before the big day."

"Thank you, Gilbert," Marilla said. "That is very thoughtful of you. But I am sure you have many things to attend to now you've come home-" She broke off when Anne turned wide eyes on her, a bit confused at this reaction but hiding it with her usual dignified air.

After a short and somewhat awkward pause, Gilbert said, "I really would like to help. I remember being in the Pageant for years when I was younger, and I thought it such a loss to the town when it was discontinued. This is such a gift for Avonlea, Miss Cuthbert, to bring it back to life!"

"No need to thank me," Marilla returned drily. "It certainly wasn't my idea or my first inclination, as I'm sure most people in Avonlea have deduced."

Gilbert smiled at that, his eyes flicking to Anne. "No," he admitted, "I rather thought you might have been - _coerced_ into it."

Anne rolled her eyes.

"I very near was," Marilla told him as though imparting a great secret.

"I didn't even ask you!" Anne protested in her own defense. "I merely vented my own grief that the children of Avonlea would not dress up as sheep and angels this year to recount the Christmas story for all to hear, and bemoaned the even greater tragedy that the town would not sing _Silent Night_ altogether, close and warm in the hall while the snow settled outside." She shrugged, flicking off all responsibility from her shoulders. "I would certainly never deign to suppose I could influence you in your decisions, Marilla."

"Anne has been the real artistic eye behind this production," Marilla continued to Gilbert. "She has a certain touch for it, an instinct for timing and who-what-where that just escapes me." She gave Anne one of her very small smiles. Anne smiled back and dropped her eyes, suddenly a bit bashful. "And the younger students simply adore her."

Gilbert nodded. "That does not surprise me a bit," he said. "I've noticed that children often respond to great feeling and imagination, that one so possessed of both as Anne is could not fail to engage them."

Anne found herself strangely uncomfortable with this turn in the conversation. She stood, riveted to the floor, her skin hot and prickly, and glanced awkwardly around the hall.

"Well, Gilbert," Marilla said, quickly returning to business, "I would be pleased to have your assistance on Tuesday for the final dress rehearsal. You can take notes for me, or standby in case we have an emergency - god forbid one of the sheep loses an ear, or an angel a halo." She shook her head ruefully.

"Thank you, Miss Cuthbert!" Gilbert enthused. "I'll be glad to help. Have a good evening," he nodded at Marilla, "Anne," he met her gaze for a moment, his own eyes brown and hopeful, "I'll see you then."

He turned and bid farewell to the other students, who were by now milling around the hall. Anne watched him pull open the door and exit, swept away into the dark winter night as quickly as he had arrived.

Marilla ended the rehearsal, seeing as how their focus had been so completely diverted (and since they had nearly finished the show, anyhow) and set them about their final clean-up duties in preparation to go home.

Anne, who had previously succumbed to brief bouts of anxiety when considering their performance for the whole town that was only three days away, now found herself dreadfully nervous for Tuesday's final dress rehearsal.

* * *

There is an old saying by those who dedicate their lives to the theatre that a bad final dress rehearsal is a sign for a good opening performance.

If that was truly the case, Anne thought they were due to present the most spectacular Christmas Pageant Avonlea had ever seen.

Her stomach was a tight knot as she slipped on her angel's dress and pushed her gold headpiece into place. She looked stonily at her own reflection in the mirror. It really was a terrible loss that the nativity angel would not have puffed sleeves; indeed, it was a tragedy and she had definitely _not_ gotten over it.

"Are you ready, Anne?" Diana asked, coming up to the mirror behind her, brushing her own hair back.

"I'm fine," Anne said stiffly, feeling her shoulders pull together in a rigid line. "Why wouldn't I be fine?"

Diana's eyes slid from her own reflection to Anne's. "I asked if you were ready," she said, concerned.

"Oh," Anne replied. "Well, yes, I am." She gave the red hair hanging free about her shoulders one last vicious look and then turned and stalked out of the room.

Sammy Spurgeon nearly bowled her over as he charged down the hallway. Anne jumped back in shock and watched in consternation as a flash resembling Jane Biggs darted after him.

Charlie Sloane paced nearby, muttering darkly to himself. Anne thought she heard the ominous phrase " _steal my turban, steal his robe"_ as she passed, Diana at her shoulder.

They found Minnie May halfway down the corridor, looking rather distraught. "Diana!" she cried when she saw them. "Oh, Anne, it's just terrible!"

"What's wrong, Minnie May?" Diana asked her sister.

"Jane was helping me pin on my wings," she said tremulously, "when that dratted Sammy jumped out from behind the door and scared us half to death! Jane shrieked right in my ear and ripped the wing off my shoulder!" Minnie May turned and showed them the bent and sorry-looking feathers dangling by a thread on her back.

"Come with us," Diana said. "Mrs. Lynde left us her entire mending kit last week; I'm sure we can fix you right up."

Minnie May wiped her eyes and nodded, taking Diana's hand and following them down the hall.

Moody Spurgeon stood at one end, gesturing grandly as he practiced his lines at full-volume. "Glory to God in the highest heaven," he cried majestically, then turned to an imaginary companion. "You have done well, dear wife," he said paternally.

"Gee, thank you!" Tommy Sloane patted him on the shoulder as he squeezed his way around. "But could you keep it down a little, honey?"

Moody glowered at him. "Shouldn't you be in costume by now?" he sniffed.

"I can't find my robe; it's not where I left it," Tommy said and turned to the girls. "Miss Cuthbert didn't move it since last rehearsal, did she, Anne?"

Anne shook her head. "I don't think so," she told him, "but you might want to ask your brother."

Tommy's eyebrows drew together. He sighed and marched down the hallway away from them.

"GLORY to God in the HIGHEST HEAVEN!" Moody almost shouted, giving Anne's heart a conniption. She glared at him, but he ignored her, continuing with his monologue. Anne swept through the door and headed for the stage, Diana and Minnie May at her heels.

Marilla and Josie Pye stood in the aisle at the front of the hall, deep in serious conversation. Anne skipped her way across the stage, pausing to give one graceful curtsey when she hit center stage - and then another, for the enthralled crowds in her imagination begged her to with their applause. Minnie May giggled behind her, and Anne turned to see her copying her antics with her own flouncy curtsy. Anne grinned at her and clapped enthusiastically.

"La bella voce!" she cried with great gusto. "Bravissima, mia bella! Encore, encore!"

Minnie May curtseyed once more, but stopped, unsure what came next in their little game. Anne mimed waving at the adoring multitudes, blowing kisses to their admirers. Minnie May giggled again and did the same, wiggling her own little fingers at their patrons.

"The king's advisor just tossed us a bouquet of roses, look!" Anne gasped, pointing at their feet. She swept them up in her arms and shook her head ruefully. "Oh, he is much too kind, truly. And look!" she pointed at the back of the hall. "The king's son is giving us a standing ovation!" Minnie May squinted in the direction Anne pointed to, then looked back up at her with wide eyes. "The _prince,_ Minnie May!" Anne squealed. "Isn't he a dream?" She fluttered her eyelashes dramatically and swooned on her feet.

Minnie May dissolved into giggles while Diana laughed. "Anne," Minnie May said when she brought herself back under control, "I think you are very funny."

"Thank you, Minnie May," Anne said seriously, fighting to hide her smile, "but looks aren't everything, after all."

She heard a snort behind them. She turned to see Gilbert shake his head, chuckling from his prime seat in the center of the front row. Anne felt the tension creep back into her neck and suddenly felt a bit silly about her behavior. She wondered at herself, her cheeks hot, but decided she didn't have time to think about it, and stepped off the stage, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

"Hello, Gilbert," she said with great dignity. "I am ever so pleased that you could join us to witness the final rehearsal before the triumphant return of the Avonlea town Christmas Pageant. I am sure that everyone will do their best tonight to meet your standards of excellence in their performances, and that we will strive to make our town proud with our humble recounting of the nativity miracle."

Gilbert grinned up at her easily. "I'm sure you will," he agreed. His eyes flicked to the wild red waves hanging about her shoulders.

Anne felt an odd churning in her stomach that did nothing to help the stress clenching her shoulders together. She rubbed her hands on her dress to keep from touching her hair nervously.

"What does Marilla have you doing to help tonight?" she asked, a little awkward.

"Taking notes," he held up the book that had been resting in his lap, "and heading off costume emergencies," he pointed to the basket overflowing with spools of thread and other sewing accoutrements in the seat next to him.

"Oh, you can help us with Minnie May's wing!" Diana nudged her sister forward, stepping around Anne. She took the other seat next to the basket and maneuvered a bashful Minnie May in front of it. Gilbert leaned forward to inspect the damage.

"Well, this doesn't look too disastrous," he said to Minnie May. "I think we can stitch you back together." And he plucked a brown spool and set about threading a needle while Anne watched with no small amount of amazement.

"I am sorry, Josie," she heard Marilla say, "but I'm afraid you'll just have to mime the child tonight."

Josie was not happy with this answer. "It's not fair, Miss Cuthbert!" she protested. "I need to practice holding the babe again before the show!"

Anne turned and nosed her way into this discussion. "What's happening?" she asked.

Marilla sighed. "Mrs. Lynde took the doll to clean it up a bit, but didn't tell me I should pick it up for tonight, so unfortunately, we are without a baby Jesus for our final dress rehearsal."

"I can't work like this, Miss Cuthbert!" Josie cried.

Anne bristled at Josie's tone on Marilla's behalf. "You'll just have to _pretend,_ Josie," she said condescendingly. "That's what acting _is,_ after all."

Josie glowered at her. "Thank you, _Anne,"_ she said through gritted teeth. "But it is simply unsuitable to expect me to go through our final rehearsal without a babe, when I must hold one for the whole show on Christmas Eve!"

Marilla looked about, searching for a solution. "I suppose we could wrap some linens together like swaddling-" she tried.

"Just cloth won't do, there's no weight to it at all!" Josie howled.

"Here," Gilbert said suddenly, rummaging in a bag tucked beneath the seat at his feet. "You can use this," he offered up a foot-long, round-looking squash-like fruit.

They looked from the squash, to Gilbert, and back to the squash again.

Finally Josie asked, "What is it?"

"Oh," Gilbert said, appearing faintly surprised when he glanced at it, as though he too were seeing it for the first time. "It's a Christmas melon."

Marilla raised her eyebrows. "A what?"

"It's a- it's a cantaloupe," Gilbert said, now sounding a bit awkward. "They're harvested late in the fall and ripen over the next few months, right in time for Christmas."

"Alright," Anne said slowly, "but why do you have it _here?"_

Gilbert blinked.

"Uhm," he coughed. "I bought it at the market just before taking the ferry to the island. I thought- uh, I thought people would find it interesting." He shrugged, his eyes darting between them.

Anne was perplexed. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the Christmas melon resting on his knees. She thought his face was a little flushed, but she didn't see why he would be so nervous about a _cantaloupe._

This was odd behavior, even for Gilbert Blythe.

"That _is_ interesting," she said, taking pity on him. "I wouldn't have thought that any melon could still be in season at this time."

"Right," he said in evident relief, "that's why it's called a Christmas melon, because it's good up until Christmas."

Anne nodded in apparent fascination. "Right," she said, "because it's still good at Christmas... that's why it's called... a Christmas melon..."

"Oh, for pity's sake," Josie snapped, "fine, I'll pretend that the baby Jesus is a _melon_ for tonight's run." She took the fruit from Gilbert's fingers. "Thank you, Gilbert," she sniffed, and stalked away, cradling her newborn against her chest.

Anne paced nervously backstage while Marilla made final comments to Gilbert and Mrs. Andrews, who also had offered her emergency-prevention services. Diana hovered nearby.

"Are you alright, Anne?" she whispered as Anne stared out onto the stage from the wing.

"Why, yes, Diana," she whispered back, the tension creeping from her shoulders to run down her rigid spine. "I am sure tonight will go marvelously, and ease all our fears for Christmas Eve."

She felt Diana nod behind her. "I just wondered how you were holding up, you know, with Gilbert-"

"I'm fine, Diana," she said quickly. Diana sensed that to say more would be treading on dangerous territory.

"Hello, ladies," they heard a male voice behind them, and whirled around. Fred Wright stood, resplendent in a deep green robe with gold sashes and dripping in sparkling jewels. He doffed his turban respectfully and said, "I just wanted to wish you both to, uh- break a leg!"

Diana gasped. "Really, Fred," she scolded, "what a rude thing to say, and right before Anne is to go on!"

"Oh, no!" Fred stammered to explain himself. "It's a stage superstition - you know how odd those theatre people are-"

Anne shook her head and tuned them out, looking forward at the empty stage again. She ran through the words of her poem - no, her _song,_ again, when she was suddenly struck by the realization that the whole thing was exceptionally silly, and not very good - she was no Keats or Fields, after all, and it was completely ridiculous of her to think that her words could have any effect whatsoever on-

"-performance of the Avonlea town Christmas Pageant!" she heard Marilla announce, and a polite smattering of applause from their two onlookers in the front row.

Anne walked woodenly onstage. Her heart pounded in her throat, her skin itchy and hot. _I can do this_ , she thought, _I've done this a thousand times, for Critter Carl and the crows, the trees and Delphina the chicken, and for Matthew. This is no different than any of those times._

"In the sixth month the angel was sent from God unto a city of Galilee, named Nazareth," Anne said without thinking, "to a virgin named Joseph, betrothed of the house of David-" she stopped. That didn't sound right.

"To a virgin named Joseph-" she tried again. "No, the virgin's name was Mary-" she felt her face burning, her mind frighteningly empty as she cast desperately about for her line. Josie, seeing her floundering, entered and crossed to her position. "Yes, Mary the virgin!" Anne pointed at her victoriously. It occurred to her that she'd said the word 'virgin' too many times in close succession to be ladylike. Prickles of sweat broke out on her temples.

Josie shot her a poisonous look over her shoulder as she knelt center stage.

"The virgin's name was Mary," Anne continued unconsciously, then cursed herself.

Josie sat up straight, fed up. "And the angel came to her and said..." she announced pointedly.

Anne blinked.

"Right!" Anne scrambled, wiping her clammy brow. "Hail, thou that art highly favoured," she said weakly, "the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou among virgins!'"

She saw Josie take a relieved breath as she picked up her cue. Anne realized she'd just said 'virgin' again, and felt the absolute last drop of her pride sizzle away in the flames of her mortification.

The show did not improve from that point on. Minnie May, distracted by her refurbished wing, blanked halfway through her monologue, the end of which was supposed to cue the barn animals for _Away in a Manger._ Sammy Spurgeon, true to his word, cartwheeled across the stage while Minnie May panicked. Jane Biggs, not one to be shown up by a boy, twirled around him, getting a boot in her face for her antics. She yelled in outrage, while Sammy clambered to his feet and apologized profusely.

"I'm sorry, Jane," he said in dismay, "but you really shouldn't have gotten so close while I was upside-down."

Jane glared at him. "Why did you have to go and cartwheel around, anyway?" she demanded grumpily.

Sammy glanced conspicuously around their castmates and down at their small audience. "I'm _saving the show,_ Jane," he stage-whispered, as though it should be obvious.

Josie, irritated at this diversion, once again took matters into her own hands, and started the first verse to _Away in a Manger._ The barn animals snapped to attention and picked up the song dutifully, their dance-off exit strangely solemn that evening.

Tommy had managed to find his magi's robe, and Charlie's turban was placed firmly upon his crown, but the bad blood between them had not cooled. They glared at each other backstage and muttered threats under their breaths.

"Where do you think you're going?" Charlie demanded, whacking his staff against Tommy's shins when he made to walk past him. Tommy jumped, clutching his leg.

"Ow!" he protested. "I was just going to watch Moody for a moment, you overbearing nitwit!" He yanked the turban off Charlie's head, mussing his hair dreadfully, and threw it in his face.

"Why you rotten-" Charlie choked on his anger, grabbed Tommy's shoulders and wrestled him to the ground.

"Get off me!" Tommy fought back, and they pushed at each other wildly, scrabbling on the floor as both aimed for the upper position. Elbows and knees flailed about, and their robes fell in undignified places while they rolled around backstage.

Anne, thoroughly displeased with the whole miserable evening, marched up to them and yanked them both ungently by their ears, as she has seen Mrs. Thomas do to her own bairns upon occasion. They sat up quickly, chastised by their vulnerability in this arrangement.

" _Stop fighting!"_ she whispered at them furiously. "Don't talk to each other, don't look at each other, and don't move from this spot until your next cue!" They looked up at her mulishly. " _Hmm?!"_ she hummed at them dangerously, pulling again at their tender ears.

"Alright, alright," they mumbled hurriedly.

"Good," Anne huffed, letting them go and stalking back to her spot in the wing.

Josie was lifting her Christmas melon up to the heavens for the Lord's inspection. "I shall keep him close to my heart forever," she announced, smiling up at her fruit, "and call him 'Jesus,' as the angel told me."

Anne sighed wretchedly.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Diana was back in her ear again.

She smiled tightly at her. "Of course I am," she said, her jaw clicking like she'd just eaten a whole batch of Mrs. Andrews' salt water taffy.

"It's just, I think you really scared the Sloane boys," Diana said, glancing over her shoulder. "They're frozen like statues and haven't said a word since you yelled at them."

"Good," Anne said shortly. "And I didn't yell, Diana, we're backstage during a _rehearsal,_ after all."

Diana nodded, staring at Anne. The tension snapped unbearably down her spine, curling painfully in her stomach. The seconds ticked by, while Diana continued to stare at Anne, who started to count backwards from one hundred in her head in attempt to soothe her frayed nerves. She felt like a wick doused in oil, exposed and ready to erupt in a frightful blaze at the smallest-

"I thought, with Gilbert here, that perhaps you might be a little extra nervous to perform your piece tonight-" Diana began, with all the good intentions in the world.

"DIANA, I SAID I'M FINE!" Anne shrieked, completely losing herself.

Onstage, Moody faltered, squinting into the wing at them. Josie turned and glared.

"Is everything alright back there?" Marilla's voice called out, concerned. "Is someone hurt?"

"No!" Anne called back, her voice breaking in shame. "Uh- sorry! I'm fine, like I said! Everyone's fine! Carry on!"

A second later, Moody continued with his recitation. Anne whirled around and marched to the opposite side of the wing, sliding down to sit with her back against the wall, her head in her hands.

Things could not possibly get any worse, she thought miserably.

This, of course, was not strictly true.

Anne entered with her host of angels behind her for the final blessing of the child, just before the wise men presented their gifts to Mary and Joseph. She stepped stage left of the little scene and watched, as she was directed. Her eyes flickered to the audience despite herself. She met Gilbert's eyes with a start, surprised to find him looking at her instead of the magi. She focused quickly back on her castmates.

"I have brought the Messiah a gift of gold," Fred said, kneeling gravely, "as befits the altar where God dwells among his people."

"I have brought him a gift of frankincense," Tommy said, "as a sign of respect to the one true deity."

"I have brought a gift of myrrh," Charlie said, moving to kneel, then pausing when he saw the offering in Tommy's hands. "Hey!" he exclaimed. "That's my myrrh!" He looked down at the box in his own hands. "Tommy, you dolt, you switched the gifts!"

Tommy looked from the myrrh, to the frankincense in Charlie's grip, to his brother. "I didn't touch your prop, Charlie, get out of my face!" he growled.

"You must have!" Charlie protested angrily. "Give it here!" he demanded, going to grab the box out of his hands.

"I said, get off me!" Tommy bellowed, shoving him away - and right into Moody, who stumbled, tried to catch his balance, and grabbed Josie's shoulder. Josie tripped in surprise, throwing up her hands, and the swaddled Christmas melon went flying. Anne watched it tumble in the air, end over end, until it landed - _splat_ \- at her feet, gobs of yellow-green fruit spattering her white dress.

"MY BABY!" Josie screamed, waving her arms frantically.

Anne looked down in horror at the standin for their lord and savior, now in runny pieces, juices dripping across the stage. She looked up at the front row, at a total loss for words or thought.

Marilla held her mouth tight with one hand, her eyes twinkling oddly. Mrs. Andrews watched in wide-eyed shocked, her own mouth open in a perfect round 'o.' Gilbert was completely enthralled, his eyes shifting over each of them, waiting in anticipation to see what would happen next.

Marilla coughed, spluttered, and coughed again. Her shoulders shook, hands clenching in a vain attempt to control herself.

Anne cleared her throat. "Glory to God in the highest," she said weakly, and Marilla burst into laughter.

This was too much for Mrs. Andrews, who dissolved into breathy shocked giggles, and Gilbert, too, whose wide smile betrayed his mirth, eyes dancing.

Anne couldn't believe it. It was a _joke,_ after all their hard work, the Christmas Pageant was a terrible, awful joke that everyone in Avonlea would laugh at. She felt her eyes burning, her throat closing tight, as Moody laughed jovially, Sammy and Jane giggling delightedly behind him.

Soon the whole cast was laughing, (Charlie and Tommy howled, their arms slung around each other's backs), and even Josie smiled, shaking her head ruefully. But no one laughed longer or louder than the three watchers in the front row, Marilla completely beside herself.

Anne heard Gilbert's chuckles above the rest, and the tension that had been coiling up her spine all night suddenly snapped. She felt the tears well up furiously from her stomach, completely unable to stem the tide of anguish overflowing in her, desperate for release.

She ducked off the stage and ran down the center aisle to the back of the hall. Someone might have called her name, but she yanked open the door without turning back and fled into the dark winter night.

She ran down the road, past the Meredith's farm, her tears freezing on her cheeks. She stopped when she reached the tree stump where Mr. Harrison had mounted his scarecrow last spring, who Anne had dubbed the Petrifying Petruchio. She settled herself on Petruchio's stump, wrapping her arms around her legs and burying her face on her knees. Petruchio waved in the wind behind her.

It was very cold, Anne realized, to be crying outside in just a white cotton dress. She shivered and huddled herself closer together into a quaking little ball.

Why couldn't anything go the way it did in stories? Not just fairy tales and nursery rhymes and torrid novels set down in pages - why couldn't the Christmas Pageant be as magical and as splendid as it was in Diana's memories from when she was six years old? Why couldn't it be as joyful and lovely as it had been when Matthew was a child, like he told her it was?

Anne had pictured all of it, the nativity story unfolding gracefully, the smiles and delight on the parents' faces, the homey joy as they sang the final song together. It was such a long way - miles and miles away from all the other Christmases Anne had lived.

The first few that she could remember were agreeable enough: helping Mrs. Thomas bake cookies for the church service, watching the other children unwrap their games, books and dresses with various levels of gratitude, and one year Mr. Thomas even let her have her first sweet taste of a wrapped candy. But the Christmases she had spent at the Hammonds' were some of the worst days of her life, made all the more terrible in her memory for having endured them on what was supposed to be a time for peace, love and family.

Mr. Hammond used the holiday as an excuse to get raging drunk, and the children, irritable and anxious at his unpredictable behavior, were even more snippy and demanding than usual. Edgar had been particularly quarrelsome one year, tripping his sisters when they walked past him, his violence finally culminating when he shoved Benjamin down the stairs. When Anne had scolded him and tried to put him in time-out for such dangerous behavior, he spat in her face. Anne screamed at him, then, outraged and hurt, her fury cut short by a stinging backhand across her mouth from Mrs. Hammond. It was a rare Christmas, indeed, that Anne escaped without a strike or a slap.

The worst, though, was the Christmas she had spent at the asylum, just two years ago. Anne had been there nearly a month, but there were no kindred spirits to be found, as she had hoped when she first arrived. The regular staff had left to spend the day with their families, leaving the orphans sparsely supervised. The other children were louder and rougher than usual on that day, and fights broke out nearly every hour in every hallway and every corner of the building. Anne fled from room to room ahead of them, listening carefully for the sounds of approaching gangs. She hid under a desk at one point, when she didn't move quickly enough to escape before they rampaged through the library, knocking books off the shelves, ripping out the pages, and scattering papers about impudently. Anne had listened to their destruction from her dark, cramped hiding spot, and she didn't move to get up for quite some time after they left. She stayed, crouched under the desk for hours, and wondered if it had snowed yet that day, if they would have a white Christmas after all.

Someone was calling her name down the road. Anne sat up and passed a trembling hand over her wet face. She saw a light bobbing in the darkness ahead of her.

"I'm here!" she said, and cleared her throat. "I'm alright, I'm over here!" she cried again, waving.

The light approached, growing brighter, illuminating a heavy wool coat, two scuffed-up black boots, windswept hair, brown eyes dark with concern and a nose red with the cold. Anne stared up at him, a strange potency rooting her to the earth like the tree stump beneath her. She was stunned, agog, held captive by his presence in the circle of light cast by his glowing lantern, enveloping just the two of them (and the Petrifying Petruchio), the rest of the world cloaked in impermeable blackness.

"What were you thinking, running out here without a coat?" Gilbert rebuked her, setting the lamp down at her feet and shrugging the wool off his shoulders. He settled it around her before she could blink, then sat down with a sigh, looking up and back at the scarecrow, creaking mournfully in the wind. " _That's_ a bit creepy," he commented lightly.

Anne sniffed. "That's Petruchio," she told him, her voice oddly nasal.

"Ah," Gilbert said. "Well, it's very nice to meet him."

"Don't tell me, tell him," Anne said nonsensically.

He huffed a bit, but sprang to his feet and turned, giving the scarecrow a rather stiff half-bow. "Petruchio, old man," he said snootily, "it's been a real slice. Good health and cheerio, mate." Then he pivoted smartly on his heel and sat back down next to Anne. "How was that?" he asked her, sotto voce.

Anne chuckled in spite of herself. "He says you seem like a real trim fellow," she told him.

"Aha!" Gilbert rubbed his hands together. "Another one fooled."

Anne tucked herself deeper into his coat, allowing the weight of the wool and the warmth Gilbert had left behind to seep through her thin dress. Her knee bounced unconsciously. "I was going to go back inside in another minute," she told him. "I didn't mean to worry anyone."

He nodded. "Marilla said as much," he said. "That you just needed time, and would come back on your own." He shrugged. "But I didn't feel good about it, so I came to find you."

"I'm sorry," she said, utterly contrite.

He turned to her, astounded. "What do _you_ have to be sorry for?"

Anne bit her lip and thought back over the evening. She sighed. "I just- I wanted it to be perfect, the way I dreamed it would be." She shook her head. "When Diana told me about the old Christmas Pageant, the way it was before it was cancelled, she made it sound so... magical and dignified- she remembered it all these years later as something special that she was a part of, almost- almost like heaven on earth." Anne felt tears gathering up her throat again, her eyes burning, and blinked rapidly. "I told everyone that I wanted to do the Pageant again for the little children of Avonlea, so they could have these memories of wearing costumes, and singing carols, and being a part of something special, something magical - but the truth is that I just wanted that for myself." She wiped her tears away with the back of her hand. "I'm afraid that makes me very selfish, and it's no wonder the whole thing is such a terrible wreck," she confessed.

Gilbert shook his head. "Anne," he said, "you are much too hard on yourself, and the show is not a wreck. It's quite charming and delightful. It's a wonderful thing you and Marilla have done, bringing it back to life for the enjoyment of the town, especially since no one else in Avonlea has seen fit to do it in five years!"

Anne's fervor sparked with his perplexing words and she shook her head at him. She couldn't know how she looked to him in that moment, the tip of her nose cherry-red from tears and the snapping winter wind, her hair curling in messy strings around her neck, him close enough to connect the dots between the freckles high on her cheeks, her eyes wide and glassy as she looked right at him with the full force of her spirit. Gilbert's heart skipped a beat or two, and a tremor snagged down his spine, the pit of feeling curling in his stomach shocking him with its warm depths.

"You shouldn't say things that aren't true, Gilbert, although it's kind of you to try to make me feel better," Anne said stubbornly. "It's a complete mess - no one can remember their lines, we missed half our cues tonight, the children don't pay attention and make far too much noise backstage, and don't even get me started on their silly dancing, I can't get Charlie and Tommy to put aside their differences for one day, I screamed at poor Diana who was just trying to look out for me, and now I have Christmas melon stains all down the skirt of my dress, which very tragically does not have puffed sleeves!"

Gilbert, trying to follow her list of grievances, pulled up short at this final one. "Puffed sleeves?" he repeated, dumbfounded. "What does that have to do with anything?"

Anne looked at him in disbelief. "Absolutely everything!" she exclaimed. "I wanted the Pageant to be romantic and dignified, but the nativity angel does not even have puffed sleeves on her dress!" She sighed sadly. "It is a ghastly travesty."

Gilbert, unaware of the depths to which this subject had burrowed in Anne's soul, said:

"But puffed sleeves would be a ridiculous frippery, completely unnecessary for an angel!"

Anne was beside herself. "Unnecessary? RIDICULOUS?!" she said, aghast. "How can you say such a thing, Gilbert Blythe?" She looked at him, her eyes bulging out of her head. "I should have known that you wouldn't have the slightest understanding of anything to do with refinement, or beauty, or romance, or- or- or PUFFED SLEEVES!" She crossed her arms and pouted (although it should be noted that she did _not_ get up and stomp away).

Gilbert realized that he had stumbled upon one of those subjects held ardently in Anne's sensitive heart, and so it rather immediately became an object of the utmost importance to him.

"I suppose I never thought much about it before," he admitted. "Do you really-" he paused, wanting to understand, but fearing to say anything that she might misconstrue as mockery. "Are they so very lovely to you?" he asked.

"Oh, yes," Anne breathed. "All the other girls wear them, even to school, though I'm sure you noticed that." Gilbert blinked, trying to recall. "And I think they are just the height of distinction." She sighed. "I am the only girl in Avonlea who does not wear them, because Marilla does not believe in extra frills, and says she is afraid to stoke my vanity - although, as I told her, I don't see how anyone with red hair _could_ be vain - and so I hoped that for the Pageant she might relent, but it was not to be, even as an angel I cannot have puffed sleeves, when all the other girls have them everyday!"

"But it seems to me that half your passion for them is because everyone else wears them," Gilbert said hesitantly. "Why should it matter to you what all the other girls have?"

"Because I've never _had_ what all the other girls have!" Anne cried, then stopped, surprised at her own answer. "Well, once," she said quickly, guilty of overlooking Matthew's gift. "Matthew bought me a dress last year, the loveliest green dress, with puffed sleeves, and frills, and pink embroidery... but we had to give it back when the farm was in trouble, and things haven't been well enough yet to ask for another one."

They were quiet for a moment, both thinking over their unexpected revelations.

"I see," Gilbert said finally. "Well, I can understand that." He glanced at her, his wool coat around her shoulders, the sleeves wrapped around her waist. He had worn it every day for nearly seven months out of each of the last three years, but still it was thick and warm, with a fine cut that cast him a dignified air, if he did say so himself. He remembered the pride with which his father had given it to him, the warm smile, his white teeth on display, when he tried it on. He remembered him waving Gilbert away when he'd protested how much he spent on it, money they would need for the doctor-

Gilbert cleared his throat. "I'll just say one more thing, and then be done with it," he said. Anne looked up at him and waited. He watched a curly red strand dance in the wind as he drew up his courage. "I know it means a great deal to you, so I'm sorry you couldn't have what you pictured. But I'm not sorry your dress is so simple or that you have no frills - it allows you to be seen as you are, lovely and wild and free, as an angel should be."

Anne didn't know how to respond to that, so she wrapped his coat tighter around her and sat back in its warmth. Something in the smell of it soothed her.

"Oh," she said, looking down at her lap.

Gilbert worried that he'd overstepped some line, and was ready to make an apology, when she turned to him with a soft, rueful smile.

"I suppose I can be a bit silly about things, can't I?" she asked.

"What do you mean?" he said, a tad warily.

"Oh, everything!" she exclaimed. "The dress, and yelling at Diana, and running away when everyone laughed-"

"I am sorry about that," Gilbert said quickly, "but you must admit, it was pretty funny..." he gave her an earnest look.

Anne rolled her eyes but couldn't keep the smile off her face. "My baby!" she mock-screamed, raising her hands in the air.

"Yes, exactly," Gilbert laughed. Anne chuckled along with him. The Petrifying Petruchio creaked in the wind behind them, tall and mournful.

"We should probably be heading in," Anne sighed, moving to stand.

"Wait," Gilbert said, a hand on her arm. He pointed to the heavens, and Anne looked up to see the stars scattered like an unfinished game of marbles high above them. They twinkled and shone, clear and bright against the black winter sky.

Anne leaned back on her elbows to get a better view. Gilbert found himself unable to focus on the stars while Anne lay nearly on her back right next to him, her hair curling in the grooves of Petruchio's stump, her head thrown back to see the unending sky, her white throat glowing in the steady light cast by his lantern. He shook himself inwardly, and settled himself down on the other side of Petruchio, his head resting on his interlaced fingers.

"Do the stars shine so beautifully at other places in the world, do you think?" Anne asked him.

"Well, they're the same stars - it's the earth that moves, so we just see them at different times," Gilbert said logically.

Anne pondered this. A copper ribbon of her hair floated like a weightless feather in the light breeze and brushed against his lips.

"I'm sure they were never so bright anywhere else I've lived as they are in Avonlea," she declared.

Gilbert blinked up at the stars, his ordered but sprightly mind sliding puzzle pieces into place. He shuffled up on his elbows to look at her.

"Anne?" he said hesitantly. "Could I ask you something?"

"Of course, Gilbert," she said, still gazing at the galaxies.

"And you have to promise that you won't be angry at me, and that we'll still be friends," he amended quickly.

Anne tore her gaze away to look at him then, wary. "I can make no such promise," she protested, "it depends entirely on what you say."

"Alright, then," Gilbert said, seeing the reasonableness in that, "promise that you'll try to remember that I mean well, that I only want to help."

She narrowed her eyes at him, but nodded, curious.

Gilbert pressed his lips together, considering the best way to proceed. "Do you think-" he started. "Is it possible that-" He paused, conflicted.

"Alright, I promise," Anne said, touched by the care he took to preserve her feelings. She waved away his startled look, and said, "Just ask me, we'll still be friends."

His shoulders lowered in relief. "Do you think that - perhaps sometimes - you might hold onto these ideas you create in your heart of how things _should_ be, because you had to remind yourself for so much of your life that things could be better for you... someday..." he trailed off at the look on her ghost-white face.

It was difficult for Anne to pinpoint what was happening inside her. She just knew there was a sharp pain in her chest, and that she was rooted to the stump, like Petruchio, unable to get up and walk away. "What do you mean?" she asked when Gilbert didn't continue.

"I mean..." he floundered for a moment. "Things have been better for you these last two years in Avonlea, haven't they?"

"Oh, yes," Anne said immediately. "I have been given a thousand gifts since I came to Avonlea - Matthew and Marilla, and the Haunted Wood, and going to school, and Diana, and learning to cook (I never was much for the kitchen, before), and the Lake of Shining Wonders, and time to wander in the woods as I wish, and the freedom to be silly if I want to be (within specific limits, of course, or I think I would send Marilla to an early grave)-"

Gilbert laughed. "And were any of these gifts just as you had imagined they would be, before?"

Anne chewed her lip. "Well- not exactly," she admitted. "Usually I imagined I was the Princess Cordelia, with lustrous black hair and a perfect complexion, and many adoring subjects, and my parents were the King and Queen, fair and kind and just..."

"Do you still wish that you were?" Gilbert asked.

Anne blinked. "No," she realized, "not really. Sometimes I still pretend," she admitted, "just for the thrill of it."

He smiled at her. "Do you think that, maybe, now that you are home in Avonlea, safe with those who love you, you can let go a little bit of the way you picture things _should_ be, and instead enjoy them as they _are?"_

Anne twisted her hair behind her, leaving it to rest in one scattered plait on her shoulder.

"You mean like with the Christmas Pageant?" she asked.

He nodded. "It won't be just as you imagined," he said, "but it might be even better that way."

Anne flashed him a wry look. "Where have you been this past year, Gilbert, that's made you so wise?"

He huffed, clasping his hands together between his knees. "I promised my father I would see the world," he shook his head at himself. "But I just went back to our old house in Alberta."

"What did you find there?" Anne asked.

He shrugged. "It's different. A lovely young family lives there now - two little boys, and the father a doctor." He scratched his neck. "I asked him why they'd settled in such a small house when surely they could have afforded better, and he said he'd lived all over the west, but never had a view of the Rockies from his bedroom window before."

"How wonderful!" Anne declared, touched.

Gilbert looked at her incredulously. "He could have given his family far more, but he crammed them into that old two-bedroom house because he wanted a room with a view!"

"So they were unhappy?" Anne asked, a little downcast.

"Well- no," Gilbert answered. "They were quite cheerful. The boys played out in the woods after school, and Mrs. Latassa would paint - she is quite a skilled artist - she would sit out on the front porch or down by the stream and paint, and the boys would run back every half hour or so to check in and give her a kiss." He smiled at the memory.

Anne gave him a supercilious look. "It sounds to me," she said, "that you should take some of your own advice."

He squinted at her. "Huh?" he said, rather inelegantly.

"You've been judging this Mr. Latassa for not moving his family into a big house, but I can't imagine his wife or his sons would thank you for it!" she pointed out.

"That's not-" he started.

"Yes, it is!" she exclaimed, sparked by the satisfying thrill of knowing she was right. "You're _just_ like me, Gilbert! Well- alike, but different," she said, and he raised his eyebrows at this explanation that did not explain much of anything. "My head might be all tied up in my ideals," she clarified, "but _your's_ is all knotted together with what you think is your duty."

He thought about this for a moment, then shook his head. "I don't understand," he said.

"Gilbert," she said, "you've done exactly what you should for the people in your life for so long. And now that your father is gone - after passing as comfortably as possible, with you at his side - you're still walking the path he laid out for you." She set a hand lightly on his shoulder blade. "And I understand that, truly I do - but I think he'd want you to be your own man, choose your own road. You're accountable only to your own heart, now." She smiled at him, her face unnervingly close. Gilbert swallowed. "Think of it as your duty to yourself," she said, giving him a coy look that set his heart to racing. She leaned back and looked up at the stars again. "Those who love you will take up your road as their own - like Mr. Latassa's family did for him."

Gilbert's head spun. He wondered if it was possible that she was right - if he could set aside his father's dreams for him, and consider his own. It wouldn't have to be forever, he thought. There was plenty of time to see the world - and to be honest, he hadn't really enjoyed traveling alone.

He started guiltily when he realized how long they'd been sitting there. He must have left the hall more than half an hour ago to look for her. What would Miss Cuthbert think?

"Come," he said, picking up his lantern. "We should go back - it's cold out, and someone is wearing my coat." He shivered pathetically.

Anne rolled her eyes at him, pulling the coat tighter around herself. "Well," she sniffed, "you really should have thought of that before running outside in the middle of winter."

Gilbert chuckled, casting a farewell glance to the Petrifying Petruchio. They picked their way over the fence and made for the road.

He glanced at her as they approached the hall. "Do you feel better about the show, now?" he asked. "Everyone will love it, Anne," he promised.

"Yes, I suppose so," she said thoughtfully. "I'll just have to stay calm from the very beginning, and not trip over my lines as I did tonight."

"You did get rather stuck on one word, didn't you?" Gilbert said cheerfully.

Anne groaned and covered her face. Gilbert laughed.

She stopped him when they reached the stoop at the front door. She pulled his coat off her shoulders and handed it over. "Thank you," she said hesitantly. "For the coat, and coming to find me, and..." she trailed off, unable to find the right words. He looked back at her kindly. Before she could stop to think about it, Anne hooked an arm around his neck and gave him a quick, awkward hug. "I'm glad you're back, even just for a visit," she whispered. "It's good to see you again, Gilbert." She settled back on her heels, not meeting his eyes, opened the door and swept inside.

Gilbert followed after, a moment later.

Anne heard his voice again that night, as she drifted off to sleep. _Lovely and wild and free_ , he had said.

Then she opened her eyes, suddenly realizing that the Christmas Pageant was tomorrow - and she still hadn't performed her song for anyone but Jerry and Matthew. She wished desperately that she had finished it sooner, that she had given herself more time to perfect it-

Words could not possibly express how much Anne hated it when Jerry turned out to be right.

* * *

Christmas Eve dawned cloudy and wet. Anne was a bit disheartened at all the grays and muddy browns in Avonlea's landscape that morning, but she bore it patiently with her newfound determination to accept life as it was, not as she thought it should be. When she really sat down to think about, she realized that Gilbert was right - the very best things in her life, the happiest moments she could recall, were nothing she could have possibly imagined before.

Matthew waved her into the living room after breakfast. Anne entered the room to find two boxes laid out on the coffee table. She looked up at him, wide-eyed. He nodded at her to open them. Marilla watched from the doorway.

Anne held her breath as she slid the bow reverently aside. She hoped it was- but it couldn't be-

Tears sprang in her eyes and she blinked them back determinedly when she found her beautiful green dress laying there, waiting patiently for her return. She picked it up and hugged it to her, then barreled at Matthew, trying not to sob.

"Oh, Matthew," she cried, "however did you get it back for me? I wanted so badly to ask if it was still there, but I thought- surely not-"

"Hmm," he murmured kindly, a hand on her shoulder. "They set it aside for us. Knew I would come back for it." He gave her a small smile. "But giving a gift that one's already given doesn't count, least not for Christmas," he said, and pointed to the other box. "Go on," he urged her.

Anne turned to her second gift - TWO gifts in ONE day, that had never happened before in Anne's lifetime - and wiped her eyes with a trembling hand. She carefully set her green dress down on the sofa and opened the other box. Inside was the loveliest, dearest white muslin dress with a blue sash, blue flowered embroidery, and (wonderful, marvelous) puffed sleeves.

"Oh my," she breathed, "it's even prettier than Diana's blue and white dress!" She looked up at Marilla guiltily. "Not that I would ever say that to her," she assured her.

"I should think not," Marilla said sternly. She looked over the dress clutched in Anne's hands. "Do you really like it, Anne?" she asked. At Anne's enthusiastic confirmation, she continued, "I'm pleased. The shop didn't have time to design a new one, so they asked me for the specifications. I confess I felt you might want a few more poofs and frills, but they are so far from my tastes that I simply couldn't bear to muss it up with all those extra shenanigans."

"No, I think you are right," Anne said thoughtfully. "I don't want to hide behind layers and layers of frills... perhaps just one layer will do." She smiled up at her cheekily.

Marilla looked at her approvingly. "Lord Above, child, have you learned a touch of restraint?"

"Restraint!" Anne looked shocked. "Dear me, certainly not, Marilla!"

Anne ran up to her bedroom to change into each of her new dresses to show Matthew and Marilla. She even performed her song for them while in her beautiful new white dress (for the opportunity to perform it while wearing puffed sleeves was simply too delectable to pass up).

Then she helped Marilla clean up and prepare for the mid-day meal. After lunch, she walked around the fields with Matthew as he checked on the goats and their jersey cow. He hummed along with her, and joined in at the repeating verse of her song.

Before she knew it, it was time to head to the community hall to get ready for the performance of the Christmas Pageant that evening.

Spirits were high and smiles were bright as the children prepared for the culmination of all their hard work, excited to show off for their families, an underlying thrill to it all as they thought of the festivities in store for tomorrow.

Josie was lovely and grave in her dark blue wrap and head scarf. She cradled the baby Jesus (nicely washed and painted by Mrs. Lynde, and carefully transported to the hall by Marilla). Moody Spurgeon was stately as always in his traveling wrap, his shepherd's crook leaning against his shoulder.

The barn animals were doing their best to behave. They nodded solemnly at Miss Cuthbert's reminders. Diana and her fellow angels checked each other's bows and tittered quietly together. Even the wise men acted as they should - if not quite dignified, at least controlled, collected.

Soon townspeople filtered into the hall and starting filling up the rows. Anne and Diana peeked around the corner and saw the Barry family three rows back, Aunt Josephine sitting ramrod straight on the aisle, her cane propped against the armrest. The Sloanes filled up the opposite row, Gilbert among them. There were the Merediths, over there the Harrisons, the Rices, Biggs, Spurgeons, Gillises and Andrews - the Pyes took up two and a half rows by themselves. Marilla sat at the front, Rachel Lynde beside her. Matthew, though he didn't relish being in the front, glanced around at their decorations with a small smile. He welcomed Jerry and his family in the next few seats beside him. Anne looked at them curiously, smiling at the baby.

Marilla motioned at them sternly to return to their places, and they ducked backstage.

"Oh, Diana," Anne gushed, overflowing with good feeling, "I am so pleased to be here at last, about to perform the Christmas Pageant for the enjoyment of our friends and family! To think, two months ago I was in the depths of mourning when Mr. Phillips said it was to be cancelled!"

"What did Gilbert say to you yesterday?" Diana wondered. "I was sure you would be a bundle of nerves right now!"

Anne shrugged, looking out from the wings again. "I just realized - what is there to be so nervous about? These are the people of Avonlea, and I love Avonlea! That's the whole point, really!"

She heard the audience quiet down as Marilla got to her feet to welcome them.

 _It's not for me,_ she thought to herself. _It's for Avonlea - it's always been for Avonlea._

She walked calmly onstage and smiled at them - her town, her family. They smiled back at her, waiting.

The Pageant progressed like a dream, the students buoyed up by their enthusiasm and the applause from their loved ones. Anne could scarce remember much of it, afterwards, but she knew she watched happily, one eye on her own responsibilities, the other regarding her classmates' performances, the townspeople following along and murmuring cheerfully together.

Then, Josie was lifting the baby (who did not, thankfully, go flying through the air that night), for Anne to recite the final blessing.

"Peace on earth, and good will toward men!" she declared, and "Amen!" the people of Avonlea answered her. They clapped loudly and enthusiastically, a few cheers punctuating their appreciation.

When the noise died down, Anne cleared her throat and announced, " _Anne's Ode to Avonlea,_ by Anne Shirley-Cuthbert." She gave half a glance down to the front row and added (with only the barest touch of reluctance), "Tune by Jerry Baynard." _And dedicated to Gilbert Blythe,_ she thought unexpectedly, but did not say.

She took a breath and, her stomach light and fluttery, her heart snapping in her throat, she sang:

"I came upon a train one morn  
My years were ten and three-  
To stay behind could not be borne  
No place was left for me.

The cart, the horse, led by the man,  
Approached me from the road.  
"Come up, get in, and take my hand,"  
He said, "put down your load."

He set our course and steered the mare,  
Two ears he had to lend.  
It's true I talked more than my share  
Glad of my first true friend.

I marvelled at the great expanse  
O'the island hideaway.  
'Twas then I had my first true glance  
For spread before me lay-

Avonlea, oh Avonlea,  
My joy, my home, my family  
True in my heart will always be  
My love, my town, my Avonlea.

To school I went to introduce  
Myself though I be wary,  
I met the Pyes, Spurgeons, Andrews,  
And dear Diana Barry.

The boys were kind, excepting one-  
Who stood and yanked my hair.  
He set his fate, him I did shun,  
For I was in despair!

My heart was sore, I did bemoan  
My angst to Mrs. Lynde.  
She said, "Instead, romp with a Sloane,"  
And look: another friend!

Deep in the wood or by the pond  
Or saddled fast at school-  
This town my heart with did abscond:  
Joyous has been its rule.

Avonlea, oh Avonlea,  
My joy, my home, my family  
True in my heart will always be  
My love, my town, my Avonlea.

At church the women pray for good,  
The men tend to the farms.  
The ghosts dwell in the Haunted Wood,  
And I fell for the charms

O'the hills, the fields, the streams, the sky,  
The Lake of Shining Waters.  
What riches that the days of July  
Are yours, you sons and daughters!

Daisies, dahlias, posies, scilla  
The spruce, the mighty pine-  
(But favored best by dear Marilla  
Is the red currant grapevine!)

I proudly sing of my birthright  
Though I be not your kin,  
My heart beats with steady delight  
For I belong within-

Avonlea, oh Avonlea,  
My joy, my home, my family  
True in my heart will always be  
My love, my town, my Avonlea.

Avonlea, oh Avonlea,  
My joy, my home, my family  
True in my heart will always be  
My love, my town, my Avonlea."

She slowed on the final verse, motioning for everyone to join in, though most had already. Matthew stood first, his hat in his hand, and the others followed shortly after. They smiled, bright and gratified, slinging their arms around each other as they sang along.

They even barrelled on after her, picking up her verse after she finished, and she clapped her hands together, thoroughly elated. She watched and smiled, a better sort of tears in her eyes.

When they finished, they clapped long and loud, for Anne's song, and the Pageant, and their children, and for themselves, to be so fortunate to be solidly and safely home for Christmas.

Anne let the applause falter just the slightest before she nodded to her castmates and began _Silent Night._

Charlie and Tommy ran down the sides of the hall to throw open the back doors. They sang the first verse together, their voices filling the hall and filtering out to the surrounding woods, before Anne climbed off the stage and led their processional down the center aisle. The younger children followed first, followed by the older students. They waved and squealed at their friends and families in the audience as they passed by.

 _Bravissimo!_ Gilbert mouthed to her, gesturing dramatically. She rolled her eyes, grinning hugely.

They walked outside and lined either side of the path down to the road to greet their audience as they exited. Anne stood just outside the doors,

"That was just lovely, Anne!" she heard, and "You were splendid, my dear!" "I'm going to be singing that all week!" "Will you sing it at the Pageant again next year?"

Anne's cheeks hurt from smiling. She looked around with wide eyes, her gaze falling on her fellow students with their families, Matthew and Marilla nearby, even the muddy, snowless landscape filling with overflowing joy.

"I felt so special to get a mention in your song, Anne," Mrs. Lynde told her matter-of-factly. "You do have quite a knack for expression, I've always thought so." Anne grasped her hand and made her sincere thank-yous.

"You did it!" a voice said, low and eager in her ear. She turned to see Gilbert's wide smile. "It all went perfectly, everyone loved it, as I knew they would. And you were- simply extraordinary."

She smiled back at him, her whole being suffused with gratitude and contentment.

Gilbert cleared his throat. "I wanted to let you know," he said, a bit awkwardly, "that I've decided to stay. In Avonlea, I mean. For good. Well- for now, but... for good."

Anne felt a rush of warm summer sunshine flow from her heart to her toes, her cotton angel's dress light and comfortable in the late-December night.

"Of course you are," she nodded at him. "Avonlea is home, after all."

It wouldn't be a white Christmas as she imagined, but Anne knew, despite that, it would be perfect.

* * *

Author's Note:

I did not write any of the poems in this fic (other than Anne's). The nursery rhymes were all printed in the 17-1800s and authorship is unclear. Anne recited the riveting _Ballad of the Tempest_ by James T. Fields at her audition. Josie, as she announced, recited _A Birthday_ by Christina Rossetti for her piece in the Pageant.

My other story, _Avonlea's Summer of 1880 Great Game of Capture the Flag!_ takes place six months after this. Go read it and leave me lots of comments there, too. :-)

Please leave me a note if you enjoyed this story - it would give me such a thrill! Thank you for reading!


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